rd leaped in his seat as if he had been prodded.

"He speaks! What does he say?" he shouted.

"Nay, Tuan," protested the composed Babalatchi; "what matters his talk
if he is not a man? I am nothing before you--why should I repeat words
of one white man about another? He did boast to Abdulla of having
learned much from your wisdom in years past. Other words I have
forgotten. Indeed, Tuan, I have . . ."

Lingard cut short Babalatchi's protestations by a contemptuous wave of
the hand and reseated himself with dignity.

"I shall go," said Babalatchi, "and the white man will remain here,
alone with the spirit of the dead and with her who has been the delight
of his heart. He, being white, cannot hear the voice of those that
died. . . . Tell me, Tuan," he went on, looking at Lingard with
curiosity--"tell me, Tuan, do you white people ever hear the voices of
the invisible ones?"

"We do not," answered Lingard, "because those that we cannot see do not
speak."

"Never speak! And never complain with sounds that are not words?"
exclaimed Babalatchi, doubtingly. "It may be so--or your ears are
dull. We Malays hear many sounds near the places where men are buried.
To-night I heard . . . Yes, even I have heard. . . . I do not want to
hear any more," he added, nervously. "Perhaps I was wrong when I . . .
There are things I regret. The trouble was heavy in his heart when he
died. Sometimes I think I was wrong . . . but I do not want to hear
the complaint of invisible lips. Therefore I go, Tuan. Let the unquiet
spirit speak to his enemy the white man who knows not fear, or love,
or mercy--knows nothing but contempt and violence. I have been wrong! I
have! Hai! Hai!"

He stood for awhile with his elbow in the palm of his left hand, the
fingers of the other over his lips as if to stifle the expression of
inconvenient remorse; then, after glancing at the torch, burnt out
nearly to its end, he moved towards the wall by the chest, fumbled about
there and suddenly flung open a large shutter of attaps woven in a light
framework of sticks. Lingard swung his legs quickly round the corner of
his seat.

"Hallo!" he said, surprised.

The cloud of smoke stirred, and a slow wisp curled out through the new
opening. The torch flickered, hissed, and went out, the glowing end
falling on the mat, whence Babalatchi snatched it up and tossed it
outside through the open square. It described a vanishing curve of red
light, and lay below, shining f